Participate in the 3rd Season of STORYMIRROR SCHOOLS WRITING COMPETITION - the BIGGEST Writing Competition in India for School Students & Teachers and win a 2N/3D holiday trip from Club Mahindra
Participate in the 3rd Season of STORYMIRROR SCHOOLS WRITING COMPETITION - the BIGGEST Writing Competition in India for School Students & Teachers and win a 2N/3D holiday trip from Club Mahindra

Kristine Ramos

Drama Horror


4  

Kristine Ramos

Drama Horror


The Story that Came to Life

The Story that Came to Life

17 mins 254 17 mins 254

When you open the door towards the museum's basement, you are greeted with a sight of a small room.


In front of you is the only door in the room, save for the one you just exited from. There's a metal sign on it that reads 'Archives' and above it is a wall clock that informs you it's already 5:40 pm.


The security guard on duty sits on the only furniture available and he's staring at you with a blank expression. You notice there are no other things in the sparse room other than the door, the wooden chair, and an old wall clock, silently ticking above the door.


He blinks before he speaks.


"Alright," the security guard nods at you. "So this is your first day to work at the basement. If you want to stay in one piece with your sanity intact, kid, my advice; don't touch anything. And never, ever READ anything."


You wonder why he'd say something so odd. As a freelance security guard, you already know that your job mostly consists of patrols and just sitting in one spot. As long as you keep your eyes and senses alert for any trespassers, you're good to go.


This job post you found on the internet looks legit enough so you figure it won't hurt to try. It's just a nightguard duty on some museum basement. It surprisingly pays a lot of money and it beats lazing on your bed and do nothing.


Here, you get to do the same except you're getting paid. So it's a win-win situation.


You nod your agreement to the elderly guard. However, he just gives you a skeptical look before shaking his head and dumping his flashlight and keys on your hands. He harrumphs and fled the room, leaving you to your thoughts.


That's weird. You'd think he'll give some words of encouragement or more advice on your first night.


"Guess not," you mumble under your breath.


You take your phone out of your pocket and slide a finger to unlock it. The museum management's texts show up on screen, instructing your duties for the night.


Apparently, there's a new acquisition that's kept deep in the archives of The Mysterious and the Macabre Museum(or The M&M as the people in the neighborhood likes to call it).


The management wants you to guard the entrance at exactly 20 minutes after six then head inside the archives section to check on the new acquisition. It also states that it is imperative for you to check the item in question for exactly five minutes before going back outside.


"Then rinse and repeat," you mutter under your breath.


You wonder why you have to check the stuff at the exact times, though. You glance at the clock and it says 5:59 pm. With a shrug, you decide it's best to check on the 'acquisition' first so you'll know what you'll be keeping an eye on.


If it's not worth the effort in doing all those instructions, you may as well wing the whole thing. Better yet, maybe get some shut-eye.


You pocket your phone and push open the door. It's pitch black inside save for a lone glass case which has its own spotlight.


You feel for some light switch on the walls beside the doors and found nothing. Shrugging, you head inside to check the so-called 'acquisition', not that bothered with the darkness since the spotlight's pretty bright.


You notice the brightness didn't illuminate the rest of the room though, except for you and the glass case. It looks like everything around you is just pitch black. Which is a bit trippy.


You lean over the case curiously and scrunch your nose in disappointment to see a worn, pink notebook inside. You recognize it's one of those notebooks for elementary students with the blue and red lines.


You snort in derision, wondering what's the big deal in guarding an old notebook. Everyone owns a notebook and everyone owns an old notebook which they either burn or let rot after they leave Elementary. What's so special about this one that it needs to be guarded under the museum with special treatment?


You snort again.


Wanting to see for yourself, you lift the glass case, set it gently on the floor, and peer at the notebook. Yep, doesn't look any different from the common notebook.


You reach out and flip the pages. It's empty.


"Ugh," you grouse, slapping it close and wonder if you should just sleep throughout your shift.


You are getting paid anyway but getting a good sleep sounds a little tempting now that you know you aren't guarding anything worthwhile. You doubt anyone's going to steal an old notebook.


You turn, bending to pick up the glass case, intending to return it. But then you pause.


There's a worn-out note on top of the notebook and you swear it wasn't there before. Putting the glass case back down, you distinctly recall that you flipped open the book and slapped it closed when you found it empty. There was never a note before or after the sequence.


So how did a note appear on top of the notebook without you seeing it?


Frowning, you pick up the note with the handwritten words Read Me. You realize that it's folded into a square and while you're unfolding it, you suddenly hear a soft thud from the darkness. It sounds like distant footsteps.


You pause, listening for it again. Did the guard return?


A few moments pass and you hear nothing. It must have been the wind, you wonder. You shrug then begin to read.


...


Dear Reader,


If you are reading this letter, know that I'm in a better place now. A better place compared to this shit hole I'm living in.


I'm so sick and tired and depressed and miserable.


All I want to achieve in life is to make something useful for those who can't write for shit even if they want to. Is that too much to fucking ask?


Well, I guess the world just wants to be a fucking asshole because it sure as hell doesn't want me to spread my creation for all. Welp, all of those packaging and fliers I did were for nothing! Efforts wasted!


But...to be honest, I think I don't want to let my creation out for the world to use.


It's my baby. And I'm no mere creator, I'm a mother, regardless of my sex or gender. I'm a giver of life, a role that is known to hold the most honor and prestige in the whole damn fucking universe.


But I guess with great power comes with great responsibilities.


My baby is not ready.


Not readynotreadyreadyreadyeyaduraydr.


It's not ready.


No one in their right mind will use it and leave unscathed. I know it all too well. Because even though I'm writing this, I'm already dying. Dying...Dead...


Like Lukhar. Lukhar died even if I didn't want him to.


But no. No. Nonononono.


He should have lived. He's the hero of my book. Protagonists don't die and even if they did, they somehow manage to resurrect themselves from death.


But not Lukhar. No. Lukhar, my Lukhar, no.


He's dead. Deaddeaseadwadwadeasead. dead.


No. No. No no no no.


I've been working on their world in my head for so long. So very long. Oh, so very, very, very looooooooooooooooooooooo0ng.


I thought of everything that can go wrong and remove it. Like a mother, I almost baby-proofed my own world but I don't want to coddle the characters living there.


As a writer, I have to put some danger in the world to add conflict. Otherwise, the story will end before it even begins. No, I have to put some danger, one Lukhar can destroy easily.


But why? Why oh, why, why, oh whywhywhyhwyhwywhyw


He's dead. Lukhar is dead. deaddeadeadeadea. Can't stop his death. Can't


...


The rest of the letter is obscured in blood and some of the ink is smudged with either tears or sweat or both.


You return the letter back on top of the notebook with trembling hands.


You suddenly feel like there are eyes in the darkness of the room, staring intensely at you. You feel yourself starting to sweat despite the coolness of the room due to the air conditioner.


Then you push your sudden fear aside because, for all you know, this could be a prank bored, old guards do to get a good laugh by scaring the shit out of the new guys. And currently, that new guy is you.


However, you can't deny that after reading the disturbing letter, you feel anxious and a little bit shook up.


Clearly whoever wrote the letter is dead now and was obviously crazy. But it's pretty freaky to know that you just touched a letter smeared with blood. A dead person's blood.


All of a sudden, the door that leads outside of the Archives slammed close. You shriek, jumping to your feet at the same time.


Rushing towards the closed door, you yank it open only to find it locked from the outside. Before you can shout for help and slam a fist on the door, a hand appears from the dangers, latching onto your wrists.


You scream as the owner of the hand emerges from the shadows. It's the old guard you replaced shifts with.


It takes a moment for you to compose yourself and catch your breath. It seems you're right about the prank stuff. Now he'll get his video recorder out or his phone and laugh at your stupid face.


However, he isn't laughing. He's just staring at you with dead eyes and you feel goosebumps prickling over your arms and the back of your neck.


Something's not right.


You don't hear anyone coming inside. You distinctly remember him leave the room and give you the keys. Not only that but you recall the management only has one key that can access the Archives and you have it.


You tug your arm away from the daze-looking guard but he doesn't budge. Then all of a sudden, the notebook begins to hum a tune you seem to know so well but can't place it.


At that, the guard's head tilts unnaturally to the side. Either he's a contortionist or...he's not human to be able to pull that off. Though, you manage to bite off a scream of terror at the sight.


He then lets you go just as quickly as he caught you before blending back into the darkness.


You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hurt yourself because all that's happening right now is crazy.


In fact, you don't understand what's really happening but the strange humming from the notebook seems to drastically alter your emotions and urges.


Like why do you want to cry when this is the perfect opportunity to write a story? Screaming and hurting yourself is also inessential because those can't help write the story.


You have to write. You need to write. Write right now!


You frantically search your pockets for a pen but fished out your phone instead. There's a message from the management there asking about your situation and if you want any assistance. You shrug and throw your phone away.


You need a pen. Or a pencil. Hell and damnation, charcoal's pretty

good to use, too.


You just need something to write with.


More footsteps echo in the dark but you ignore it, busy looking for a pen. Then there's a light, metallic clang in the distance before a pen rolls from the darkness to stop at your feet.


Elated and beyond excited, you snatch the pen from the floor and rush towards the now-open notebook.


It suddenly looks new and smells new when you remember seeing it so old and a bit yellowed around the edges. But who cares? You need to write!


You start writing, establishing the main protagonist Lukhar.


Born in a village named Alex, the name of your crush, he's beloved by all. For the next chapters, you embellish his developed traits, features, and skills. To you, he's your baby and he's going to be indestructible with a fulfilling prophecy to fulfill.


You give him a loving family, true friends, and a childhood sweetheart you plan to have him marry in the future chapters. Everything's as it should be for the next few chapters as you write his journey from a baby to a toddler, teenage years, and finally adulthood.


With each chapter written, your love for your character grows stronger, and your desire for him to get a happily ever after increases. And you feel confident and sure that he will get it because you're the writer.


To Lukhar's world, you are the God who controls his life and how the people act around him. Nothing can stop you from giving him the best of what your heart, mind, and words can offer.


However, as soon as you hit chapter 21, you notice things are starting to get weird.


One of Lukhar's friends is plotting to steal his intended under his nose. But you know she won't come to his friend because she loves Lukhar. There's no way she'll cheat on him, especially when they're about to get married.


You wonder why you wrote that part but try as you might, you can cross out or order your hands to remove that particular passage.


To your surprise, you're suddenly writing that Lukhar's girl is actually just using him to kill Lukhar's sister. She always hated Lukhar's sister because he dotes on her and the woman you wanted him to marry is full of malice and hate. How you didn't notice it in the first chapters when you develop her is beyond you now.


You can't stop the woman from enacting her plan. You can't write her off. You can't kill her even if you wanted to.


All you can do is drop not-so-subtle warnings to Lukhar's way, so he'll know and he'll be able to thwart her. So she won't be able to kill his beloved sister.


However, as the chapters moved on, you notice that you can't influence the story anymore. Lukhar can't take your hints or input thoughts into his consciousness.


With every chapter that passes by, you write how his now ex-lover finally managed to kill his sister. You write how one of his friends killed Lukhar's father and took advantage of his mother. You write as every member of Lukhar's family are being killed off one by one.


And despite having the pen in your hands and the words coming out of your mind, you are helpless to stop the destruction that enslaves Lukhar's life.


In your mind, you keep track that you're still in the middle of the book. You feel like you aren't getting any closer to the end. And while you ponder that thought, your hand begins to cramp and tire.


Which is laughable because you surmise that you've been writing for the past six hours straight. For the first five chapters(out of seventy-five) you never felt any signs of carpal tunnel, you wonder why you're feeling it now.


Your eyes widen when you feel your hand begin to write the words you're dreading.


Lukather...


"No," you whisper.


Lukather d...


"No! No, no, no! Don't! Stop!" You start screaming.


Lukather di...


"Stop, please! No! Stop it, Lukather! Stop!!!"


Lukather die...


You scream and scream and scream. You even struggle to move your body. You move your feet and your body, alright, but your hand holding the pen is still writing as if you aren't struggling.


Lukather dies...


There's a thud outside the door and as soon as you hear it, the lights went off and you crumple to the ground. The last thing you remember is a series of footsteps echoing inside the room with you.


***


You open your eyes and you stand up from the floor. Memories of what happened flood your mind and you shriek with terror as you frantically look around you.


You're still inside the Archive. The display with the cursed notebook is still there--unopened, unmarked, and untouched--the lone light and the open door behind you that leads towards the room where you're supposed to guard the acquisition...


Everything is still there. It's as if nothing happened.


Maybe it's just a dream after all? Or a nightmare, if you want to be accurate? However, dream or not, the fear from it still lingers so you don't want to play with anything in the room anymore.


Without a second thought, you race outside and closed the Archives behind you.


You're just going to do your job and screw getting in there every twenty minutes and patrol inside for five. You're not coming in there ever again.


You check the time, hoping what happened in the Archives(either you were sleeping or whatever) was enough for you to clock out. But when you look up at the clock, you're surprised to see that it's saying 5:59pm.


You blink and the clock hand moves. It's now 6pm.


You fumble for your phone and sigh in relief when you feel it bulging in your pocket. You quickly swipe it open and you see it IS 6pm, on the same date when you're asked to report.


When you flip to messages, you're surprised to see that you just have to wait in the room and make sure no unauthorized personnel gets in for the whole shift. There's no more special timings or special visits inside the Archives.


You wonder if that message was just a fluke and this is the real message? With a shake of your head, you decide that maybe this is all because you didn't sleep that much before you came here.


Nodding at that reason, you shrug off whatever that just happened. The fear you felt back there quickly dissipates as you take your seat and start your shift.


The minutes pass by and you decide to count the time by minutes instead of converting 60 minutes to one hour. But when you reach 75 minutes, there's a commotion outside the door.


You snatch the company-issued baton strapped from the chair and got ready to fight. But then, two distinct gunshots are heard outside and you dive on the ground to duck for cover.


One of the bullets must have hit the doorknob because once the shooting stopped, you hear the door creak open before you feel a heavyweight slam on top of you, making you yell out an expletive.


Urgent shouting and murmurs are heard as you struggle out of the impossible weight. After a moment, the weight is gone and you alternate between coughing and sucking in deep breaths.


"You okay?" one voice asks you.


You're still coughing but you manage to nod. When you look up to thank whoever it was, your eyes widen at the sight of the dead security guard, who you just replaced, being toted by two men wearing the museum's staff.


The security guard has two bullet holes where his eyes should be. It seems like you're seeing into two black holes of blood and gore. But that's to be expected since you heard gunshots.


What makes him look creepy though, is that he seems to be smiling at you. A small, secret smile that promises you something is coming for you. Something...big.


And you fear whatever it was.


"W-what happened?" you manage to ask.


One of the men whips out a phone to call 911 so the other one answered.


"Someone busted in the museum, yelling for Lukhar to come out. Apparently, he and Lukhar here have some bad blood between them. The dude was saying that Lukhar didn't deserve his sister, that he didn't love her. But that guy said he did enjoy killing Lukhar's dad and let his mom watch while he fucks her or some shit."


The man holding the guard sighs sadly. "That guy's totally whacked in the head. He killed Lukhar and then killed himself. It's too late for Lukhar though but...he was a good guy, you know?"


You glance at the dead guard but you can see he's not smiling anymore. Could it have been a trick of the light or something? Also, the security guard you met before was Lukhar?


Huh.


He sure had a strange name but you don't want to comment on that and offend the guard's friend.


The second guy suddenly ends his call and turns to his companion. "Alright, I called 911. The ambulance should be here any minute."


He then turns to you and looks you over. "What about you? Are you hurt?"


You shake your head while the first man adjusts his hold on the dead guy. His badge flashes against the light and right into your eye.


One minute you see that the badge has the name Lukhar embossed on it and then the light reflects from it, blinding you slightly before you see that the badge is devoid of any names. You think it's a pretty weird badge. But maybe it's just for show or something.


"Are you sure you're okay?" the second man asks you again and you nod.


The man sighs in relief. "Good. But we'll have to check you out anyway. So come on, you can leave your post. The museum will be closed for a couple of days to sort this out anyway."


He moves to his companion and hefts the other arm of the dead guy. Both of them toting him out as you follow.


"This is too painful, man," one of them whispers gruffly and you can hear him sniff.


"I know. We're going to miss Blendyn. He shouldn't have died like this. I wish I could beat the crap out of that son of a bitch."


"Rest in peace, Blendyn, my man," the other man sniffs again.


The security guard you met before was Blendyn?


Huh.


He sure had a strange name but you don't want to comment on that and offend the guard's friend.


One of them clears their throat, "By the way, what's your name? We have to report all employees present here during the incident. You know, paperwork stuff."


Your name?


"Oh," you answer. "My name's Lukhar."



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